


Hunger Pains

by Kittenfightclub



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Originally part of a larger work but it doesn't quite work anymore?, Post-Seine, ace valjean, hints of sickness, it should though, pining javert, sorry if something doesn't make sense because of that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 00:17:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8229677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittenfightclub/pseuds/Kittenfightclub
Summary: Post-seine, Valjean takes Javert into his care and tries to nurse him out of his sickness. The trouble is Javert refuses to eat.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Very lightly proofread so sorry for any mistakes!  
> There are so many different things going on in this fic? idek  
> Uh I wrote this in the past three hours and I'm very tired so sorry for the incoherency :)

“Javert,” Valjean started, the argument was old but seeming as Javert was more defiant than ever it went on. He smiled like starvation was an old joke to him.

“You must eat.”

“Must I?” was the reply, spoken with a mocking tone; Javert attempting to raise his voice an octave left him hoarse and rasping. It would have been funny were he not so obviously unwell.

“You are no longer-” suicidal was the word that died on Jean Valjean’s lips, as though it would become truth with an utterance, he refused to speak its harsh syllables, “I don’t see why you see fit to punish yourself!”

“I am not punishing myself, Valjean, I am simply not hungry.”  
He had not eaten in two nights.

He was starving and yet his reluctance was not so easily conquered, he was no longer self-destructive, Valjean was correct, the issue was more shallow than that and it cut Javert to the bone with chill.  
He had become accustomed to life and if he did not deserve it, well, it was not his decision to make - “All right, you can have the spy!”- The pain in his throat, now a gentle sting by the laudanum’s blessing, he felt would make it hard for him to swallow food. He saw himself writhing, choking, gasping, clawing at his own neck and chest in a desperate attempt to breathe until his fingernails came away bloody.

“Yes, Javert, you must,” Valjean muttered, exiting the room.

  
He had given up, or so it seemed to Javert, who once again sank down onto the pillow with a sigh, finally able to breathe deeply. He closed his eyes and felt the tension leave his biceps first, his triceps, wrists, hands, and drip down the lengths of his fingers. It was intensely pleasurable and then at once terrible and grisly as his chest constricted and Javert began to choke for breath.  
He had underestimated the extent to which he had to restrain his breathing, one deep breath had sent him reeling.  
The chase for air left him red faced, his limbs tingled with exhaustion.

Javert’s hair lay tangled around him, rings of black curling into his sweaty neck. Valjean had never seen Javert’s hair out of its queue until recently but he was infinitely fond of the previously well hidden waves running through it.  
Javert’s lips were chapped and red with dried blood, his eyelashes were heavy over large eyes, no longer constantly squinted with disdain and focus, although still semi-blind. His hair was unruly, as were his whiskers; Valjean would let the man nowhere near a razor. His stomach pained him far more than Javert felt it ever should, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out.

  
This is how Valjean found him twenty minutes later. He returned as quickly as allowed, having asked the maid to prepare tonight’s broth and then waited for its warming. He had a bowl of it between his palms and a loving smile on his face as he crossed the room to sit by the ex-inspector -who, in the most elegant of terms, looked fuckable or debauched even-

“Oh,” he sighed and set about checking the man’s temperature, worried that Javert may have once again worsened his fever. Jean Valjean’s hand came away hot and he tried to smile as he set the bowl down upon the table and put his attention on the man before him.

When Valjean set a cool rag upon Javert’s forehead the younger man groaned his gratitude and Valjean, although he could not explain it, shivered at the noise. He sat down beside Javert and urged him to lean up, setting about tidying the man’s hair.

 

 _The food can wait_ , thought Valjean, untangling delicate charcoal strands with just the tips of his calloused fingers. It was unbelievably soft and the way that Javert sighed with the pleasure was only serving to make it seem more so. Javert felt soft, and warm with things other than the fever and Valjean smoothed down his hair from his crown to his nape before beginning again at the top until his hair was as sleek and smooth as a river running.

The thin curls were carefully arranged along Javert’s back in a way that suited his bones, large and jutting against the cloth of his shirt, and Valjean took great care in that.

Javert was so thin and Valjean realized that among other things as he continued with his actions. Running thick fingers through Javert’s hair and over his scalp firmly while Javert purred, breathing thinly.  
Once the man’s hair was a shining plate of iron across his back, a shield, thick and cool, dried of sweat and fear, Valjean took up again the bowl of broth.

“Javert,” he murmured, but the poor man was sleeping, he had been sleeping through it, for while Valjean’s hands on him was a treat it filled him with hellfire and reminded him of things that were not to be. While he longed for Valjean, Valjean longed for the embrace of God, the love of his family and the satisfaction of nursing a sick man back to health. To Javert, it seemed that he meant nothing to the man who was his everything.

  The soup had become cold. Valjean stood, attempted another smile before shaking his head, retrieved the blanket and swept it over Javert with a great gust of strength, took the bowl, and left the room.


End file.
